


And Other Fruits of Men

by obsolete_theory (ersatzbeta)



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Explicit Language, M/M, Violence, WTF, supernatural!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ersatzbeta/pseuds/obsolete_theory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Crawford was hot and powerful didn't mean Schuldig wanted to reproduce with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who are not Fretting to Be Free

**Author's Note:**

> No, this is not mpreg. Yes, one of the key points of the story is Schuldig and Crawford making babies...but it's all test-tube babies stuff, not Schuldig with cravings for dark-chocolate dipped dill pickles with a bowl of green tea ice cream. (Not that I'm against mpreg, it's just that this story isn't that.)
> 
> I thought I'd post here because, while I am actually posting this story on my LJ first, I figure there's more traffic here. (My friends' list is teensy, hahaha!)

The first thing Schuldig did was rent a car. A sports car. A flashy, red, way too expensive sports car with lots of pretty horses under the hood. Ordinarily, he would have overpowered the miserable little clerk's mind and gotten it for free. Because what good was being a telepath—half water elemental and half mixed-bag and an interesting assortment of powers, actually—if you didn't use it to get things for free, twisting people around so that your wants were their wants. They were all too happy to give everything they had once Schuldig was done.

There was something very appealing about actually spending the money, though. For one, the clerk was fully cognizant and just about pissing his pants with the excitement of such a high-paying customer. Schuldig did a little snooping in the man's mind. Yep. Paid on commission.

For another, he wasn't actually spending his money. He was spending the family's money, and they didn't dare cut him off, not when he hadn't yet consented to be their babymaking stud. Schuldig watched with great satisfaction as the clerk swiped the very exclusive credit card he handed over. He took the card back, his fingers brushing against the clerk's. The physical contact afforded Schuldig a direct line into the man's thoughts. _Well_.

Schuldig smiled. He was feeling expansive, at the moment, being thousands of miles away from the enclave of relatives awaiting his consent to parenthood. Schuldig had those fuckers over a barrel: the family had worked for generations to make someone as powerful as him, and—he played a tiny, sad violin in his head—he was, in fact, so powerful, that he could turn them down when they told him it was time to settle down and make babies 'for the good of the family.'

Schuldig shrugged and felt the clerk's attention fix on the way his hair cascaded over his shoulders. Too bad for them. The clerk, on the other hand…Schuldig found his attentions flattering.

"Charles," said Schuldig. "Do you like working in customer service?"

The clerk stammered. This was not part of the usual blandishments exchanged between customers and employees, and Schuldig could tell how badly the deviation threw the man. His confusion was lemon-tart in Schuldig's mind, and it was all the sweeter that the man was having a bit of heterosexual panic to boot. Schuldig drank the feeling in. He pressed, ever so gently, on the clerk's mind, and moved a half-step closer to the counter.

"If you want your commission, don't you think you'd better make sure your customer is satisfied?" said Schuldig.

He gestured to himself and the clerk's eyes followed his every move: from the hollow of his throat down the sleekness of his chest, all the way to the indecently tight fit of his pants across his groin. Schuldig felt the man's brain light up like a Christmas tree. Schuldig palmed himself, and the man groaned.

 _Gotcha._

Schuldig unbuckled his belt and the clerk practically drooled.

"Well, Charles?" said Schuldig. "Don't you want to make sure I'm satisfied?"

The clerk nodded and tried to vault the counter to get to him. Schuldig pressed a little harder on the man's addled mind, and, accordingly, the clerk grabbed the keys for the little red sports car. Schuldig smiled like a wolf, and they headed out to the parking lot, the clerk all over him like a second skin and Schuldig half-gone in the blissful swirl of the clerk's, _hmm_ , very complimentary thoughts.

  
The wind whipped through Schuldig's hair as he peeled out of the parking lot, leaving the clerk behind with a protein facial and his pants unzipped. Schuldig smirked in the mirror. For a man who had no previous experience with blowjobs, Charles had done a damn fine job. Schuldig's body tingled agreeably. He pulled onto the freeway, sliding into the sparse traffic like he belonged.

"Where to next?" he said.

For a brief second he considered leaving the country: Rome, Paris, London…Hell, even Geneva would be better than here. It would be a pain in the ass, though, to mindfuck his way through customs without a passport. He sighed and pushed the little red sports car harder. It leapt forward, accelerating smoothly to eighty, ninety, a hundred miles an hour. The speedometer's needle crept upward.

At a hundred and seventeen miles an hour, the countryside was nothing but a big, golden daylit blur. Very pretty, though Schuldig's bangs kept creeping into his eyes, stinging, and the wind hitting his face made him tear up. Everything around him was blobby, and he only very nearly missed having a spectacular wreck with a semi.

He passed inches from the truck's bumper. The truck blared its horn at him. Schuldig flipped the driver off.

"Fucker!" yelled Schuldig.

He would have beeped his horn, but he knew from experience that sports cars like his would only give an unsatisfyingly cheerful chirp. Still…He patted the dashboard. The car really ate up the miles, and she was a smooth ride. He settled into the seat, loving the feel of the leather seat as it cradled him.

He could almost fall asleep, except for the other cars he came upon: the flashes of terror from the drivers kept jolting him. Fuck them. Like they'd never seen a car going fast before. It was a highway, for fuck's sake, and the limit for the law-abiding was seventy five. Seventy-five was enough to obliterate you and your car if there was an accident, so what did it matter if he was going faster than that? They’d all be dead anyway.

One handed, Schuldig fished out a bandana and put it on. There. Now he wouldn't singe his hair if he needed a cigarette between here and wherever he was going. Speaking of which, where was he going?

Another huge highway-green sign flew by.

"Twitchell—50mi  
 Effington—52mi"

Schuldig gave an involuntary snort. Effington? _Twitchell_? Still, civilization was civilization, and the green sign was followed by a blue one proclaiming the presence of various food, gas, and hotel chains. Good enough. He was getting hungry already, and the endorphins from the blowjob were fading, leaving him tired from his spur-of-the-moment cross-country jaunt. Running away from home, if that's what you could call what he'd done, was fucking exhausting. He laughed, fished out a cigarette, lit it.

A green sign caught his attention at the side of the road:

"Twitchell—46mi"

Schuldig pushed the accelerator to the floor, and, for a second, his unhappiness lifted and his laughter was genuine. This was the life. Who'd want to stay home and make babies when they could be out doing this instead?  

Schuldig felt his lips curl into a snarl, and he drove recklessly for a while, passing cars at lightning speed, playing chicken, darting from lane to lane, driving inches from the guard rails just to feel himself _living_.

It took the cloying, absolute fear of the next three drivers he passed to calm him down. His cigarette had burned down to ash. He flicked it out of the car. _What a fucking waste_. He shook himself out of his mood as best as he could and focused again.

The red sports car screamed down the road toward Twitchell.

 

  
Brad Crawford got on the 2:38 plane to Twitchell. He sat in first class. He put a single bag in the overhead baggage compartment and, after accepting a mineral water from the stewardess, he closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. Brad Crawford slept for the three and a half-hour flight. A stewardess woke him as they taxied down the landing strip. He thanked her, got his bag, and disembarked as soon as the plane stopped moving. There was a car there to meet him: black, tinted windows. Crawford got in. The car drove off.

  
Crawford loosened his tie and adjusted the lap portion of his seatbelt.

"He'll be at The Brandt," said Crawford. "We'll go there."

The driver nodded. The car moved through the city accordingly.

Fragments of a vision dazzled Crawford, breaking up his view of the city: brick buildings marching along the road interspersed with strip malls and heavy traffic. He shook his head and felt some irritation at the sudden changes in his immediate future.

"Wait," he said. "Take me to the grocery two streets over. We'll go to the hotel after that."

"The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley, eh?" said the driver.

Crawford sighed.

The driver laughed.

The car made a u-turn, clipping the back of an SUV and jostling Crawford in the process. They shot down a narrow, one-way street.

Schuldig would be insufferable, no doubt, seeing him here when he'd tried to leave everything Crawford represented behind. Crawford rubbed his temples and tried not to frown. Schuldig could take his attitude and shove it.  Crawford rearranged his tie and ran a hand over his hair. He didn't have to look in the mirror to know he looked perfectly kempt. He had an appointment to keep, whether Schuldig liked it or not.

Just ahead, the grocery store's sign flicked on. It began to glow in anticipation of nightfall.

Schuldig had stopped for groceries, feeling a sudden hunger to spend more money that wasn't his. He stood in the checkout, complaining to the cashier just to hear himself talk. She was his captive audience. He bathed in the sullen glow of her emotions like he was warming himself by a fire. Schuldig prodded the coals.

"I'm only twenty six," he said. "Who wants to have kids now?"

He said this having read out of her head that she had three children and she was only twenty-four, desperate to live her life as a young adult but saddled with the responsibilities of diapers and late nights and double shifts to make ends meet. He pushed a little deeper and pulled away, disgusted. She was _happy_ anyway. He just didn't get it.

"So what if I've got a little fairy blood in me?" he said. "Lots of people do."

It was a non-sequitur, he knew, and the cashier struggled to keep up. She nodded.

"I've a little of that myself," she said. "They say it's harmless enough."

Schuldig, stuck in his own little world, continued.

"And so what if it's not actually fairy blood?" he said. "So what if I'm half water elemental?"

And suddenly he found himself under the scrutiny of everyone within ear shot. The people around him were _scared_ that he'd suddenly change into Something Else right there and start slaughtering them all.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he said. "It's not that bad."

He paid for his groceries and stuffed them into bags himself, all the while aware of the pairs of eyes watching his every move. It wasn't like having supernatural blood was _that_ rare. For crying out loud, people were cropping up left and right: publicly announcing that they were children of fairies, genies, and all sorts of other entities. Schuldig's family had a long, proud tradition of mixing it up, but they'd always kept it under wraps because, hey, why show your advantages to the competitors?

It was one of the things he hated most about his family: everything was competition, be it business deals, politics, or genetics. And then there was Schuldig, the young scion, full of those precious, rare genes, monied, proud, spoiled, and desperate to escape his looming Reproductive Duty to the Family. The people his family had picked out as good genetic matches… Schuldig shuddered. Not going to happen.

He turned around to leave and rammed into his least favorite person. What little good mood he'd had evaporated. Speaking of genetic matches, here was enemy number one.

"Crawford," he said. "Get out of my way."

Crawford smiled at him, self-assured. He wrestled one of the bags out of Schuldig's hands. Damn but he was strong. But so what if Crawford was hot and powerful? That didn't mean Schuldig wanted to reproduce with him.

"You're looking well," Crawford said. "Have you reconsidered my offer?"

"Go fuck yourself," said Schuldig. "You're the last person I'd ever, _ever_ want to have kids with."

"Our families would disagree," Crawford said. "I'm not leaving until you say yes."

"Then hover quietly in the background somewhere," said Schuldig. "Leave me alone."

Schuldig glared and tried to hip-check him. Unfortunately, Crawford stepped aside at precisely the right time and the only effect he had on Crawford was to make him smile. Again.  
   
Schuldig was tired. Tired of this argument he had every time he saw Crawford, tired of trying to run from the leash his family had him on. Though he was technically out on his own, he had no doubts that his family was watching his every move. Schuldig frowned harder. Just like Crawford. Smug, prescient bastard. He'd probably been using his visions to track Schuldig the whole time. Crawford was never more than a thought away and it rubbed Schuldig's nerves raw.

"Go away," said Schuldig. "I'm checking into a hotel tonight. I'll be perfectly safe there."

Crawford looked meaningfully over his shoulder, out to the parking lot.

"Better hurry up," he said. "It's almost sunset. I'll walk you to your car."

Schuldig swore. Sunset was bad. Sunset was when all the creepy crawlies and things that go bump in the night—and were there ever _things_ that went bump in the night—came out, hungry and wild, and someone like Schuldig was the perfect aperitif. True, those things would attack anyone out after dark, but if it was a choice between Schuldig and some poor human schmuck out for coffee, they'd go for Schuldig every time. Schuldig had it on good authority that he smelled far more delicious than a normal human and that that scent was powerful enough that it could wake even dormant genes in a pseudo-norm. It was a pain in the ass being Schuldig.

"I don't need your help," said Schuldig. "Give me my shit and leave me alone."

He jerked his groceries out of Crawford's hands and stalked off to his car, as quick as he could without running. He started it up and peeled out of the grocery store lot.


	2. Of Orthodox Biology

Schuldig arrived at the hotel just as the last rays of the sun disappeared and the hotel's valets were closing their gated lot. He tossed his keys to them, grabbed his bags, and hit the lobby. He loved the Brandt hotel chain: you could choose between talking to a human clerk or going the beautifully, blissfully, fully automated route. Just for fun, he checked himself into the honeymoon suite. The computers clicked and registered him, swallowed and spat out his credit card, and politely requested he enter the elevator to his right. Said elevator swept him up to his suite.

His room came complete with an enormous water-bed, wall to wall animal skin carpets, and three beautiful, charming hookers. It pained Schuldig, deeply, to send them away. He couldn't have sex with them, couldn't afford to do anything that might end in producing a child. His control was good, but it wasn't one hundred percent, not when he was fucking his way into oblivion.

Being gifted had its perks. Schuldig had great looks, preternatural speed, telepathy (which tended to make him downright euphoric), and the very unique, very special ability to control the viability of his genetic material: be it hair, skin, or the, heh, _sample_ he'd left with the car-rental guy. Hence, his extended family's failure to pressure him into fatherhood. Schuldig's consent had to be absolute, and he didn't trust those vultures an inch.

Schuldig kept himself shut down all the time. No unintended baby-making, thank you very much, and a big fuck you to the family. But there was always the chance that he'd mesh too deep into his partner, and he might, unconsciously, give his body the green light when he didn't mean to. Read: no sex with the hookers the hotel had so thoughtfully provided. Though why hookers came with the honeymoon suite, he couldn't begin to guess.

Schuldig settled his things in the armoire, sloshed on the bed, ran his bare feet through the carpets, and went back down to the lobby. He'd spotted the requisite the requisite high-end coffee shop adjacent to the concierge, and he could kill for some caffeine right about now. It had been a long day's drive.

Thinking about nothing in particular, he studied the menu. The cashier was a young thing, pretty enough and entertaining vague thoughts about the real color of Schuldig's hair and if he might be any good in bed. Schuldig smelled nice and she wondered if it was his cologne. The cashier didn't have a chance and she knew it. Her dinner break was coming up soon and she had an eye on one of the pastries in the case as the perfect dessert.

Her low-level, barista misery was, unsurprisingly, bitter like coffee in Schuldig's mind. He drank it down.

"Give me the biggest coffee you've got," said Schuldig. "And how about that danish?"

He pointed to the very pastry she'd wanted. The cashier looked at him briefly and turned away to fill his order. Her misery cranked up a notch. The machines hissed and clanked, spouting jets of coffee into an absurdly large cup. The cashier took his money and gave him back change. Schuldig wiped his hand on a napkin afterward and glared daggers. _Bitch_. She needed to do something about that warm-and-sweaty thing she had going on. Was she sick? She'd better not give him the flu or something.

And just as he was laying hands on his coffee, everything went horribly, horribly wrong. The smiling cashier doubled over the danishes and came back up foaming at the mouth. Wild eyed, she grabbed for Schuldig, who jumped back in horror. _Shit_. The cashier had ghoul blood, somewhere back in the line, and he'd touched it off.

Schuldig would kick himself later for not having noticed the signs. Right now, he had more important things to think about, like _staying alive_. The ghoul surged forward, scrambling half-over the counter, and Schuldig kicked it back. Hooray for steel-toed boots. The ghoul's shoulder went _crunch_ and it stumbled back against the rack of coffee flavorings. Some of the bottles shattered. As soon as it righted itself, the ghoul tried to vault the counter again, its back shedding broken glass like driven snow. It snarled and went straight for Schuldig, kicking in the bakery case as it tried to get at him. The ghoul shrieked its frustration and yanked its leg free, spraying blood under the warm glow of the display lights.

The customers around them screamed, and Schuldig took a second to sneer at the peanut gallery. This ghoul was _nothing_. It was newly awakened and was both slower and stupider than the average ghoul. It hardly counted as dangerous. The ghoul finally scrambled over the counter and Schuldig dodged its clumsy attack, avoiding the claws and the, _eww_ , dripping mouth by a wide margin. The ghoul launched itself at him again. It growled and its hunger pressed hard on Schuldig's mind. Schuldig was suddenly _starving_. He shook his head, dizzied. The hunger wasn't his. The ghoul's claws caught in the sleeve of his jacket, and Schuldig twisted out of the way before he was disemboweled. The thing was getting faster. _Shit_. He tore out of his jacket and found himself with his back against the wall that divided the coffee shop from the rest of the lobby. The ghoul looked at him and it drooled. _Starving_.

The problem with ghouls was, assuming they didn't kill you, their attack—the slightest drop of saliva in an open wound—would turn you into one of them. And ghouls were always hungry, always ready to bite and chew. If you were quick enough, you might survive, provided you amputated your arm or leg or whatever part of you had been bitten.

Schuldig didn't want to have to do anything so drastic.

He pulled his gun and splattered the ghoul's head all over the espresso machine. The bullet nicked a tube and steam vented in a great, coffee-scented cloud. The lobby was silent for a second, and Schuldig heard the little bits of brain matter and bone hitting the walls and the machinery. _Plink. Plop._ The ghoul twitched once, took a half step forward, and went down. Its corpse slumped to the floor, leaving behind a slimy, dark red swathe all over the pre-packaged ground coffee display. _Squelch._

And then everything got noisy. The closest customer vomited, then passed out. _Yuck._ Wouldn't want to be her when she woke. The emotions of the crowd swept over Schuldig and he felt… _nice_.

He smiled down at the gun in his hands. Schuldig loved his gun. Why hadn't he used it earlier and saved himself a near miss? Well, it wasn't like he'd planned on killing a ghoul tonight. And he'd gotten the job done in the end, hadn't he? Schuldig gave his gun a pat and stuck it back in his now-ruined, three-hundred and fifty dollar jeans. He eyed himself and felt a far-off irritation. The ghoul blood would never wash out. Oh well. The hotel could buy him a new pair. It was their fault, the dumb-asses, for hiring a ghoulie in the first place. There were tests for that, and fuck them if they hadn't pre-screened. Schuldig had only come down for a coffee, after all. _Mmm. Coffee._

Schuldig looked at the mess in the coffee shop and grimaced. He zeroed in on his extra-large. Fuck. It was covered in ghoul-slime. He couldn't drink it now. The other customers milled around, some crying hysterically, others on their cell phones, and security—discreet, high-end security—started approaching. They were a little late to the party, now weren't they?

"You're welcome," he said.

He nudged the ghoul corpse aside with the toe of his boot and leaned up over the counter to see if there was anything there safe to drink. Shit. Everything that looked good had been ghoul-splattered. He needed caffeine, dammit. The hotel had to have coffee somewhere.

"How efficient of you."

Schuldig jumped. His hand went to his gun and his mind went searching. Crawford, again? Did the bastard follow him _everywhere_?

"Don't do that!" Schuldig said. "Unless you want me to shoot you."

"I like to protect my interests where I can," said Crawford. "But I see you have it well in hand. I assume you are uninjured."

Crawford looked the same as ever: calm and in control. He stepped with great care around a pool of congealing ghoul blood. He reached out to Schuldig and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Schuldig slapped his hand away.

"Protect this," he said.

He flipped Crawford off. Crawford merely smiled.

Screw it. Schuldig needed a shower and room service. He went as quickly as he could for the elevator without it looking like he was running away. Crawford followed him. As Schuldig waited impatiently for the elevator car to arrive, Crawford gave the security personnel a nod. The men returned to their former positions, scattered around the lobby. The elevator dinged. Schuldig got in, and Crawford got in as well, though Schuldig tried, without success, to get the doors to close on him. It burned Schuldig that security allowed themselves to be waved off. What if Crawford were a nut job, a stalker, somebody dangerous? Schuldig laughed to himself. Crawford was dangerous. There was no question of that. Maybe he'd scared the security guards off by sheer force of personality. Hell, with his powers, he might have warned the hotel management already that Schuldig would take care of the incident. Wouldn't that be a pisser?

"Tell me what you're thinking," said Crawford.

"I'm thinking that you're going to convince the hotel to give me a new outfit for my trouble," said Schuldig. "That almost might make up for you following me here."

"Would it really?" said Crawford.

Schuldig rolled his eyes.

"You know it wouldn't," he said.

The elevator stopped and its doors opened on Schuldig's floor.

Schuldig paused.

"You wouldn't be following me to my room, would you?" he said.

"And if I did?" said Crawford. "Don't think you'll be able to convince security to escort me off the premises. I've already briefed them."

Schuldig flipped him off again, and once more Crawford smiled. He followed Schuldig all the way back to his room. Crawford was too quick for Schuldig to slam the door in his face. Pity. It would have been very satisfying. Maybe if he'd broken Crawford's nose doing it, Crawford would finally take the hint and leave him the fuck alone.

To Schuldig's surprise, there was a new outfit already laid on the bed. The jeans were the same as the ones he had on. Schuldig glared at Crawford.

"I took the liberty of informing the management," said Crawford. "They send their sincere apologies."

Schuldig extended both middle fingers in Crawford's direction and made a strategic retreat to the bathroom.

After stripping out of his ruined clothes, Schuldig took the world's quickest shower. He left his gun on the vanity, just in case something else weird happened, but all he did was knock it off the counter when he reached for a towel after he showered. He sighed. At least the safety was on.

He wrapped his hair up and dried himself off. No way was he going out in front of Crawford in just a towel. Schuldig dressed quickly, then ran a comb through his hair. He sent his mind searching. _Ugh_. Crawford was still there.

"The least you could do is order me room service!" said Schuldig, through the door. "I'm going to die without something to eat!"

The bastard _laughed_ at him. Schuldig unlocked the bathroom door and threw his wet towels at Crawford. Crawford caught them as if they'd planned the whole thing, and Schuldig felt cheated.

"I still have a gun," said Schuldig.

"It's very impressive," said Crawford. "Your gun."

Crawford's eyes roamed over Schuldig, and Schuldig felt Crawford's brain change gears into a level of dirty that Schuldig might have appreciated if it had come from anyone else. Instead, Schuldig did his best to ignore Crawford, and the best avoidance tactic he knew was to spend more of the family's money.

Schuldig ordered room service: rare steak, warm mushroom salad, baked brie wrapped in pastry, fresh fruits, and a bottle of the best wine they had, which cost a pretty penny in itself. The hotel had sent him a complimentary bottle, but it was mid-priced shit. He didn't care about the price of the wine, really. What he cared was that he was going to eat his meal in front of Crawford and he was not going to offer so much as a single crumb to him. He knew Crawford had a thing for wine, too. Schuldig considered whether or not to taste it, call it shit, and pour it down the drain. It was petty, but he liked being petty, at this moment.

The room service delivery was prompt. Schuldig made nice with the bellhop, who was practically pissing-his-pants level _afraid_ of Schuldig and Schuldig's gun. He considered it an amazing exercise of self control not to give the kid a compulsion of one kind or another…Like how about if he pissed himself every time the concierge bell rang? Pavlov had nothing on Schuldig.

The bellhop left, and Schuldig was alone with his meal. _Well, almost alone._ Schuldig wondered what he could do to get Crawford to leave. If he fried Crawford's neurons, he'd be in serious, serious trouble, and anything less than brute force—like, say, the stray thought that Crawford had left his car unlocked—wasn't going to work. Crawford had too much discipline of thought for that.

Crawford settled into the other chair at the table.

"I already ate," said Crawford. "Having foreseen this remarkably small attempt at revenge. No coffee?"

Schuldig made a face at Crawford and did his best to ignore the smug bastard.

He ate the salad first. Crawford watched. The sound of Schuldig's silverware and the sound of chewing were the only noises in the room. Schuldig swallowed, and he felt Crawford's eyes on his throat, tracking the course of the bite as it squeezed its way south.

"Quit that," said Schuldig.

"Hmm?" said Crawford.

"I can feel you getting turned on," said Schuldig. "I'm eating a fucking salad, for fuck's sake. You're fucking up my appetite."

And it was true. He had to actually put down his fork because every mushroom he ate tasted like Crawford. Crawford didn't say anything, and the press of his lust grew neither less nor more. Schuldig raised an eyebrow.

"You're only going to give yourself blue balls," he said.

He took a sip of his wine. That, at least, was left untouched by Crawford's intents and desires.

"I booked the suite next to yours," said Crawford. "Just in case you need me."

Schuldig choked on his wine and he ended up blowing some of it out his nose. He spat the rest of his mouthful into his napkin.

"You don't mean that like you said it," said Schuldig.

"How, exactly, did I say it?" said Crawford.

Shit. Crawford was doing that scary, button-down smoldering thing, and Schuldig knew that this was a seduction. _Shit_. Schuldig couldn't even eat a meal in peace. Crawford was hot to go, which infringed on Schuldig's consciousness and made Schuldig horny too. But mostly it pissed Schuldig off that Crawford thought he could _handle_ Schuldig like this.

Schuldig shoved himself away from the table. He dialed room service again and told them to come pick up his dishes. He didn't feel like eating any more. Without a word to Crawford, Schuldig left. He felt Crawford's eyes boring into him even after the room's door shut behind him.

 

Schuldig was hot and angry and—absolute truth—a little shaky now that the ghoul-induced adrenaline was wearing off. His meal would have helped if he'd been able to eat more of it, but he couldn't handle Crawford's attitude any more than he could the man's not-so subtly thrumming lust and ham-fisted attempts to get Schuldig into bed, and so he'd gone to find the next best thing to a good meal: alcohol, served by a human being at the Brandt's very nice in-hotel bar.

If he could have, he would've gone out, but it was definitely night, and he'd already had one ghoul encounter more than he wanted. Schuldig wasn't in the mood for whatever else might be roaming around this time of night, so the bar it was. At least the bar was at an angle to the coffee shop and it wasn't in his line of sight.

Schuldig slung himself onto a stool, ordered a double whisky, and waited with impatience as the bartender poured. Schuldig drank it down and motioned for another.

Which was how he met Yohji. Someone sat on the stool to his left and ordered what Schuldig was drinking. The man—and it was, indeed, a man—got the bottle of whisky and waved the bartender away. The man drank for a minute, quiet, then reached out and refilled Schuldig's empty glass.

"Hi," said the man. "I'm Yohji."

Schuldig looked sideways into green eyes, blond hair, and a charming smile that reached the man's eyes.

"Fuck off," said Schuldig. "Not in the mood."

Yohji nodded, taking a sip of his drink.

"You have a fight with your boyfriend?" said Yohji.

Anger uncurled inside Schuldig. Fuck this guy and his assumptions.

"He's not my boyfriend," said Schuldig. "He's not _anyone_."

"Okay then," said Yohji.

Yohji raised an eyebrow but didn't actually express his doubts out loud. Pity Schuldig could read minds.

"So I've got to ask about earlier," said Yohji. He gestured in the direction of the coffee franchise, currently roped off and darkened so no one would think it was open, despite the nasty smears of ghoul blood and brains all over the place.

Schuldig groaned. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another. Yohji's fingers brushed against his, and Schuldig startled.

"Security," he said. "You're security."

Of course Yohji was security. Schuldig dug just far enough in Yohji's mind to confirm. If Schuldig hadn't been feeling the aftereffects of Crawford's hormones, he would have already known to avoid Yohji. Still, the man's hand was pleasantly warm.

"I'm off-duty," said Yohji. "If that helps. I'm just a curious by-stander, is all."

"Isn't everyone," said Schuldig.

He leaned back in his seat. The alcohol was, finally, starting to do its job. The press of the minds of all the hotel guests blurred comfortably together, and his own thoughts acquired a certain comfortable distance. He felt his muscles relax a hair.

"Go ahead," Schuldig said. "Ask. I can tell you're dying to."

"Now me, I'm normal with a capital N," said Yohji. "But you, you had a ghoul flip on you and you killed her. It. Whatever."

"So?" said Schuldig. "Shooting a ghoul in self-defense isn't a crime."

"I'm just wondering who you are. You didn't even blink," said Yohji. "I take it this happens to you a lot."

Schuldig laughed a good, long time. Yohji watched him, his curiosity apparent.

"You have no idea," said Schuldig.

"Your gun legal?" said Yohji. "Carrying concealed is a crime, even if you did shoot a ghoul and save a coffee shop full of people."

 _Hah. That's rich. He thinks it was heroic._

"I've got a permit," said Schuldig.

"So if I go upstairs with you, what are the odds it'll happen again?" said Yohji. "You shooting your gun, I mean."

Giving Yohji's mind a scan, Schuldig felt some of his unhappiness be subsumed by predatory instinct. How easy it was, sometimes, to flip from off to _on_.

"Depends on which gun you mean," said Schuldig. "And who says you're coming with me?"

Yohji smiled. For a so-called capital-N normal, he was very charming, and Schuldig felt himself pulled in by that charisma. Schuldig had had his share of freaks for the night, and it was a relief that this man was ordinary and, apparently, quite willing to scratch the itch that Crawford had inadvertently passed on to him.

"We can have a good time," said Yohji. "Maybe that nothing-to-you not-your-boyfriend will see what he's missing."

Yohji's words mirrored Schuldig's thoughts but, miracle of miracles, Schuldig hadn't had to lean on Yohji's mind at all. The jealousy-provoking sex was all Yohji.

"You're reading my mind," said Schuldig. "How convenient."

He smiled at Yohji in return.

"So," said Yohji. "You going to tell me who you are?"

It was almost cute how Yohji's mind screamed "what" when his lips said "who."

Schuldig set down his glass.

"I'm not going to do anything freaky," said Schuldig. "Well, at least, not anything you won't enjoy."

"Oh?" said Yohji.

Schuldig touched the pleasure centers of Yohji's mind. He smiled when Yohji just about slid under the bar. Yohji recovered his calm quickly, for a normal. He sat up again and reached for another drink. It took him a minute to speak again.

"That it?" said Yohji.

It was a flip thing to say, but his voice was gratifyingly shaky, and Schuldig noted the bulge in his pants with a great deal of prideful interest.

Schuldig touched his mind again, this time just to chat.

 _Not exactly._

Schuldig cackled at Yohji's bug-eyed surprise.

"Ah," said Yohji. "So…"

 _Minds read, fortunes told. Well, no, I lie. I don't do fortunes._

Schuldig rummaged in Yohji's memories, getting to know him in a fraction of the time any clumsy, normal pick-up ritual would take. Schuldig liked what he saw: Yohji was going to be such _fun._

"You said something about wanting to inspect my hotel room, mister off-duty security," said Schuldig. "That is, if you think you're up for the challenge."

He winked at Yohji and watched realization dawn. Yohji set his glass down very carefully on the bar. He set some money down too, enough, Schuldig saw, to cover both their drinks. _And a gentleman, too._

"I'm always up for a challenge," said Yohji. "Lead the way."

So Schuldig did.


	3. The Inviolate Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated E for explicit man-sexings between Schuldig and Yohji.

Schuldig opened the door to his room, Yohji close enough behind him that he could feel the heat of Yohji's body through their clothes.

Crawford was gone.

Schuldig felt petulant: he'd wanted to rub Crawford's nose in it, metaphorically speaking. He'd wanted to make a scene: show off Yohji, kick Crawford out, the whole thing. Of course Crawford was gone. Still, if Crawford had cleared out early then there was a chance that he'd foreseen this. It was almost enough to give Schuldig the warm fuzzies. He pulled Yohji into the room.

"You look like the cat who's got the cream," said Yohji.

He looked around the room. Schuldig caught him by the jaw. He kissed Yohji, open-mouthed and a lash of tongue across his lips. Yohji returned the favor.

They sloshed onto the bed, which rippled crazily beneath them, eventually trying to buck the two of them off it. Schuldig laughed and wriggled into the center of the bed, leaving Yohji to bounce over the ripples he'd made. Yohji followed him on hands and knees, smiling and eyes alight.

"Who's the cat now?" said Schuldig. "You're dying for a petting, aren't you?"

The tent in Yohji's pants looked downright painful. Yohji unzipped with a sigh, his dick finally out for a little air and exercise. Schuldig stroked a finger along the length, proprietary. Yohji shivered under his touch.

"I've showed you mine," said Yohji. "Show me yours."

His voice was compelling, his eyes feverishly bright.

Schuldig shucked his jeans fast. Yohji's eyes on him made him hot—heat raced up and down his spine, flaring in his groin.

Yohji flipped him a condom. Schuldig caught it, looked at it, and then looked at Yohji.

"Them's the rules," said Yohji. "You want to get on the Kudou Express, you've got to put that on first."

Schuldig cackled.

"The Kudou Express?" he said. "Really?"

Still, it made Schuldig very happy that Yohji had volunteered his ass. Not that Schuldig wouldn't have, but it pissed him off that everyone assumed that long hair equaled "take it all, bitch." Except, thankfully, Yohji didn't seem to. He probed Yohji's mind and laughed a little more.

"So this is the pick-up equivalent of going dutch?" said Schuldig.

Yohji looked a little surprised, but nodded.

"I suggested it, so I figure it's only fair," he said. "Why? You not interested in fucking? We can trade blowjobs instead, if you want."

Schuldig _looked_ at Yohji. He tore open the silver foil.

"I want it all," said Schuldig. "You putting this on me, your hand rolling down over me. It'd be so hot…"

His mind synched with Yohji's, and his words became suggestion.

For all that he seemed to enjoy getting his hands on Schuldig's dick, Yohji was not unaware that Schuldig had done something. He ignored Yohji's puzzled thoughts. Schuldig blissed out for a minute with the feel of Yohji's fingers stroking up and down, easing the latex over him.

"Schuldig?" said Yohji. "Ease up, yeah? Unless this is a kink you didn't warn me about. Because I can't take my hand off your dick. Literally."

Schuldig didn't really hear him, not until Yohji gave him a squeeze, harder, which got his undivided attention. He reeled his mind back a touch, and Yohji removed his hand and the half-unrolled condom as well. It'd been a while since Schuldig had slipped this bad. It wasn't polite, not with a willing partner, anyway, and not that he did polite. Still, he really didn't do _apologies_ , either, and here he was with the words jammed in his throat, two seconds away from spilling out where Yohji would hear them.

Yohji looked at him thoughtfully. Schuldig could feel his mind working but, for the first time since he'd met Yohji, the normal's mind wasn't screaming at him what Yohji was thinking. It was a relief. As pleasurable as he found Yohji's mind, it was a relief.

"I deserve compensation for that," Yohji said. "What if I'd been stuck with my hands on your cock for the rest of my life, huh?""

And then it was back to loud and clear thoughts from Yohji, and Schuldig got a glimpse of what Yohji would consider _compensation._

Schuldig smiled.

He pounced.

In no time at all, Schuldig was half on top of Yohji, giving him the best blowjob he'd ever had in his life.

Schuldig knew it was the best and he took pride in that, took pride in, _heh_ , blowing away all Yohji's previous experiences. Yohji's memories, the sheer volume of them, impressed Schuldig. Still,

 _Quantity doesn't mean quality, Yohji._

Yohji moaned in reply. He rested one hand on Schuldig's shoulder and the other twisted up in the hotel's comforter. How sweet. Yohji was trying not to grab him hard and fuck his mouth with everything those lean hips of his could muster. Schuldig took pity on him.

 _You can pull my hair._

Yep. One of the best perks of telepathy, right there. Yohji's hands twined in his hair less than a second after Yohji realized that Schuldig hadn't spoken out loud, that Schuldig could still _talk_ with his mouth on Yohji's cock.

Then Schuldig broke out the lube. He finger-fucked Yohji to hear all the sloppy, needy noises Yohji made.

It wasn't long before Yohji came. Schuldig spit into one corner of the hotel comforter and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand.

Schuldig twisted his fingers inside Yohji, and Yohji jolted up from the hips. Schuldig felt it through his own nerves, the way Yohji's body convulsed from maybe-too-much-too-soon, and Schuldig was suddenly, horribly aware how long it had been since he'd last come. He needed to fuck Yohji, and he needed to do it _soon_.

Yohji panted for a few seconds, catching his breath.

"Toss me a cigarette, will you?" said Yohji. "I'm feeling lazy. But after that…"

Yohji gestured to himself.

"I'm all yours," he said.

Magnanimous, Schuldig lit cigarettes for the both of them one-handed: two in his mouth, then the flick of the lighter and Yohji's fingers against his lips, snagging a cigarette. Yohji took a drag, and Schuldig went back to stroking Yohji from the inside. Yohji was practically boneless in his pleasure: he wasn't hard again, not yet, but Schuldig could feel the burning promise of it coiling in his mind. Yohji finished his cigarette phenomenally fast. It was with obvious regret that he tossed the butt into the bedside ashtray.

"Enough," said Yohji. "Fuck me already."

"Maybe I will," said Schuldig. "Or maybe I'll just keep doing this to you all night, see how many times you come."

Schuldig grazed Yohji's prostate, which, until now, he'd been avoiding to give Yohji a little breathing room. Yohji groaned.

 _There._

Yohji's body caught up with the pleasure and his cock started to fill again. Schuldig did it again, and Yohji pulled off Schuldig's fingers, launching himself at Schuldig and knocking him flat on his back against the bed. With a speed Schuldig envied, Yohji snagged another condom, opened it, and slicked it over Schuldig. Then, just as fast, Yohji lined himself up and dropped down. Schuldig had just enough time to register tight, slippery heat, before Yohji pulled up and went for another pass. Another deep, throaty groan from Yohji, like Schuldig's dick was pulling something painful out of him, and Schuldig had to do _something._

Schuldig gripped Yohji's arms, pulled his upper body taut, taking away some of Yohji's leverage to move. Yohji pushed against him, flexing the muscles in his ass in a move that had Schuldig seeing stars.

"Go faster," said Yohji.

"Slow down," said Schuldig.

Schuldig ground up into Yohji's tight body, and Yohji shoved down, meeting his efforts halfway. They found a rhythm, a rhythm that made Yohji bite his lip, a rhythm with _friction_ , a rhythm that had Schuldig ready to come from the goodness of it. Schuldig kissed Yohji, tasting a hint of blood.

 _See? Slower is better._

And then Schuldig brought Yohji's arms down, onto his shoulders. Yohji's nails cut into his skin, and Schuldig knew there would be bruises along with the scratches. _Good_. One of Yohji's hands left his shoulders to attend to his cock.

And then Schuldig rubbed his mind against Yohji's at the same time his dick glided across Yohji's prostate. Yohji tightened around him, squeezing hard and his eyes closed tight.

"I'm gonna—" said Yohji.

So Schuldig did it again, rolling over the pleasure centers of Yohji's mind, his dick inside Yohji, his hand joining Yohji's between their bodies. Yohji choked on a sound, a scratchy, low sound and Schuldig felt his brain light up. Yohji came, splattering Schuldig's body with wet warmth, his body a vise grip around Schuldig, and Schuldig found himself being dragged into orgasm as well.

Yohji flopped down on top of Schuldig, extricating himself with an ease that spoke of practice. Lots and lots of practice, seeing as Yohji could remove and tie off a condom one-handed. Without looking. Yohji tossed it in the direction of the trash can. Swish. Nothing but net.

"Show-off," said Schuldig.

"Yep," said Yohji.

Yohji broke out the cigarettes and they lay, pressed together, sweaty and passing a single cigarette back and forth between them. Yohji blew a couple of smoke rings at the ceiling.

"You want room service now or later?" said Schuldig.

"If I say later, what happens now?" said Yohji.

Schuldig smiled, showing his teeth.

"You can fuck me," said Schuldig.

Yohji laughed.

"Not to be a downer, but, you know, I'd have to get it up again for that," said Yohji. "I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good."

Schuldig flapped a hand at him.

"Not a problem," said Schuldig. "Mind over matter, you know."

And Schuldig _twisted_ , there, in Yohji's brain.

"Bam!" said Schuldig.

Yohji choked while inhaling. He gave his dick a slightly-amazed, slightly-creeped-out look as it twitched, for a second, into full hardness. Schuldig cackled and let Yohji's brain go. His dick went limp again.

"Pays to be a capital S Special," said Schuldig. "Nothing personal against you normals."

"I guess maybe," said Yohji.

He gave his dick a speculative look. This time, his thoughts came through loud and clear. _Seriously? How long?_

"You can get another round in," said Schuldig. "Beyond that, you're risking…damage."

Yohji winced. He stubbed out in the ashtray and shook the hair out of his eyes.

"I need another cigarette," he said. "I'll think about your offer."

Schuldig handed him the lighter and the pack. Their fingers touched, and Schuldig felt Yohji's mind say _yes_. Schuldig smiled. _Mine_.

Yohji raised an eyebrow.

"For now," he said.

Schuldig doubted Yohji knew what he could _really_ do if he wanted. So far, he'd seen the warm, fuzzy, blowjob-giving Schuldig. Schuldig let his thoughts wander, just a little, skipping over the minds in the hotel. And then he stopped.

 _You ass._

Yohji looked startled.

"What did I—" he said.

Schuldig cut him off with a kiss and a fondle. Shit. He was being sloppy today, wasn't he? From ghouls to this.

"Not you," said Schuldig.

"Okay," said Yohji.

The front door of the room swung open.

" _Crawford_ ," said Schuldig.

Crawford ruined Schuldig's afterglow. He stalked into the room, color burning high on his cheekbones, despite his best efforts to look like he wasn't seeing anything. It was interesting—and funny—the way Yohji arranged himself in the bed once Crawford appeared: he put himself _in front of_ Schuldig. Like he actually _cared_. Like he thought Crawford was some kind of _threat_.

Crawford crossed the room and murmured a quick word in Yohji's ear, too quick for Schuldig to catch. Yohji frowned, but his posture eased. Crawford forcibly walked him, a hand on each shoulder, out the door. Crawford swept around the room, gathered Yohji's clothes, and tossed those out into the hall as well.

"Hey!" said Schuldig. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We need to talk," said Crawford.

"Now?" said Schuldig.

It was almost— _almost_ —entertaining the way Crawford was scrupulously avoiding looking at Schuldig. But what did the bastard expect? He'd barged in on Schuldig post-sex, and Schuldig was naked. He was also sticky and getting chilly, but he would rather continue to make Crawford feel uncomfortable than slide under the covers to keep warm. Schuldig considered calling Yohji back in the room. Rather than leave, Yohji was standing guard in the hall, no doubt waiting to see the outcome of the interruption. Schuldig spoke into his mind.

 _Sorry. If you want to, you can entertain yourself and we'll get back to it later._

Yohji's thoughts were a little fuzzy, but Schuldig read a bit of humor at the idea of getting caught masturbating in a hotel hallway.

 _No one would see you if I didn't want them to, so maybe they would and maybe they wouldn't. But the suite next door is mine too, if you want it. Door code coming atcha._

Yohji went. Schuldig felt the air pressure change as Yohji opened and then shut the door.

"Schuldig," said Crawford.

His tone of voice let Schuldig know that Crawford was impatient, and his surface thoughts showed a touch of jealousy that Schuldig was more interested in Yohji than in him and the news he'd come to deliver.

"Fuck you," said Schuldig.

"If only you'd let it be that simple," said Crawford.

He had been avoiding looking at Schuldig's post-coital splendor, but now Schuldig watched Crawford's eyes moving over his body. Possessive. It would have been way hotter if Crawford hadn't pissed him off so much.

"So talk," said Schuldig. "The sooner you finish, the sooner I can get back to that hot little number next door."

Crawford looked vaguely discomfited.

"You let him into my room?" said Crawford.

"Yep," said Schuldig. "He's rubbing one out on your bed while he waits."

Crawford's discomfort became palpable, and Schuldig smiled. It was a lie. Yohji hadn't done anything of the kind. He'd washed up, put on his clothes, and was currently sitting in a chair. Schuldig almost admired his self control: the poor thing was waiting it out in the hopes that Crawford would leave soon.

"I've had a vision," said Crawford.

"Let me guess," said Schuldig. "I'm going to say yes and we're going to make lots of test-tube babies."

Schuldig rolled his eyes. As if he was going to let that happen, ever.

"You will say yes," said Crawford.

"Not today," said Schuldig. "Not ever."

"No, not today," said Crawford. "I don't suppose any of that is viable."

He followed Crawford's line of sight and examined his stomach.

"Nope," said Schuldig. "And most of that isn't mine, either."

He lit another cigarette just to see the lines between Crawford's eyebrows deepen. Crawford didn't approve of his filthy little habits—smoking was just the tip of the iceberg, as far as Crawford was concerned.

"You're in danger," said Crawford. "You might even die."

Sometimes Schuldig thought it was some sort of precognitive imperative to see the three Ds all the time: Danger, Death, and Destruction. Crawford had fed him this line a lot in their association: Schuldig, you're in danger, better leave me some sperm just in case. Schuldig, I just killed that nightwatch that was coming for you. Schuldig, danger gives you an adrenaline rush and it would make for some great sex. Schuldig, watch out for that nest of vamps that live above the bodega. Schuldig, you needed mouth to mouth, and my slipping you some tongue was a total accident. Schuldig, you're a ghoul-magnet, here's an extra clip for your gun. Schuldig, just give in and I'll be your baby-daddy and look after you like the man of the house I am.

Okay, so maybe those weren't Crawford's exact words, but it was all true. Crawford was the worst of his would-be paramours, and he was ruthless about exploiting any opportunity that would bring him close to Schuldig. What made it worse was that both their families were egging Crawford on. Even if Crawford hadn't had the whole precognitive thing going for him, the bevies of relatives around them would, no doubt, feed him information to help in his pursuit of Schuldig.

"The only danger I'm in is that Yohji might get bored and leave," said Schuldig. "He's got a girlfriend, you know. Not that it stops him from wandering, but he always returns to her. And she _forgives_ him, or some shit like that. Disgusting."

Crawford looked at him sharply.

"You're lying," he said.

Schuldig shrugged.

"Maybe I am and maybe not," he said. "Doesn't matter. What counts is that Yohji's _creative_ in bed, and I've barely begun with him. Go away."

"As a matter of fact, I came to tell you that I have to leave," said Crawford. "There's a problem with one of my other interests, and I have to go take care of things in person."

"I'm shocked," said Schuldig. "So shocked."

Crawford snorted.

"Try to stay out of trouble," he said. "The events around you are chaotic, as always. It's difficult to see what the future holds for you, even now."

He tossed something at Schuldig, and it smacked against his chest. Schuldig picked it up and turned it over.

"A cell phone?" said Schuldig. "What am I supposed to do with this? Page you when I've changed my mind?"

Schuldig pitched it in the general direction of the garbage, where it landed with a clunk.

"If you come across something you can't handle, call me," said Crawford. "I'll be there. I'll only be gone for a day or two."

Schuldig waved a hand at him. It was always the same with Crawford: business came up and he had to go. Even if he'd only been pissing Schuldig off, hanging around, it pissed Schuldig off more that he wasn't holding Crawford's attention, that something else was more important than he was.

Crawford sighed.

"I can see you're not ready to listen," he said.

"Damn straight," said Schuldig. "Now go _away_."

"You can tell your…admirer next door it's safe to come back," said Crawford. "I expect the maids will be through soon. I already checked out."

Well shit. The jealousy-provoking revenge-sex had been pointless. Crawford hadn't even been there. He'd missed the whole thing, and now he was just going to walk away.

"Schuldig?" said Crawford.

Schuldig looked up, and Crawford brushed a hand over his cheek, turning his head. Crawford's face was very, very close, and Schuldig noticed how his eyes were actually striated, blue and darker blue and something approaching purple. Schuldig held his breath and waited to see what Crawford thought he was doing.

For a second, it seemed like Crawford might finally man up and try for a kiss when Schuldig was actually _conscious_ , but he averted his eyes at the last second, and his lips passed by, a fraction of an inch away from Schuldig's. Crawford turned away abruptly and walked, stiff-legged, to the door.

"Call me if you need me," he said.

He tossed the cell back to Schuldig and left.

Schuldig rolled over on the bed and frowned into his pillow.

"Bastard," he said.

Almost immediately, someone knocked on the door. Schuldig reached out with his mind. Yohji.

"Can I come in?" said Yohji. "Or should I call it a night?"

"It's open," said Schuldig.

And it was because Crawford, that ass, had left the door cracked. What happened to protecting his interests? What if some ghoul or vamp or nightwatch or zombie or something was inside the hotel? Schuldig would have to shoot it, that's what would happen, and he'd be pissed that he wouldn't have a little extra warning of the thing trying to claw his door down to get to him. It'd just barrel on through and Schuldig would kill it, in the nude, and there'd be viscera _everywhere_ and it would all be _Crawford's fault_.

"You okay?" said Yohji. "You look a little…"

Yohji touched him and Schuldig jumped. Yohji frowned, and Schuldig couldn't stand the concern he was radiating.

"I'm fine," said Schuldig. "Pissed. But fine."

Yohji lay next to him on the bed.

"You want to talk about it?" said Yohji.

"What do you think?" said Schuldig.

"Okay then," said Yohji. "Just thought I'd offer."

Yohji was quiet, but Schuldig could hear him thinking about how his ass felt right now, wondering if Schuldig wanted him to stay or go, if they'd do anything else and maybe he could offer Schuldig a blowjob if he didn't want to fuck anymore or there was the room service thing and maybe Schuldig was the kind of guy who needed a hug instead and they could smoke in the bed with no one bitching about the smell…

Schuldig laughed and rolled onto his side. He unbuttoned Yohji's shirt.  
"The day I stop fucking hot guys is the day they put me in my coffin," said Schuldig.

Yohji looked away for a second, but Schuldig sensed no real embarrassment from him. There was no fear there, either, which was really, really nice. Schuldig warmed slowly under Yohji's admiration. Determination mixed with lust, and he allowed it to sweep away his troubles, for now.

"I forgot you could do that," said Yohji. "You just seem so…"

 _Normal? I'll take that as a compliment._

Yohji made a fist and bumped it, gentle-like, against Schuldig's shoulder.

"I didn't mean it like that," said Yohji. "But yeah."

Schuldig took Yohji's fist and uncurled his fingers. He guided Yohji by the wrist down his chest and further.

"I believe you thought something about a blowjob," said Schuldig. "We'll talk room service later."

He cocked an eyebrow at Yohji, giving him a silent appeal-slash-appraisal with his.

 _C'mon, who can resist my puppy-dog eyes?_

Yohji laughed. He took the hint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten pages down, who knows how many more to go! :) If the formatting's a little weird, I apologize. I've had to tinker with it to make it not be the dreaded brick-of-text. (I think something actually went wrong in my word processor, and the error got carried along when I copy-pasted.)


	4. Morning, Midnight, Twilight, Noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of violence and action and drama this chapter...hope it was worth the wait!

God, Schuldig loved post-sex mornings. The only thing that could have made it better was post-sex morning sex. But Yohji had had to leave early for his shift, and Schuldig didn't want to do shower sex only half-awake. Too much risk of slipping and hurting something tender. Instead, he lay in the bed, leeching the heat out of Yohji's spot, rolling and stretching and getting long red hairs all over Yohji's pillow.  
  
Yohji came back, briefly, to grab his pants. His hair sprinkled water on Schuldig's bare skin as he shimmied into the legs and buckled his belt. He kissed Schuldig, quickly, and headed for the door yanking on his shirt.  
  
"If you ever come this way again…" said Yohji.  
  
Schuldig nodded.  
  
 _I'm only a thought away._  
  
They both knew how likely that was, though, and Schuldig was glad that Yohji didn't try to drag things out and say that he'd call.  
  
"Bye'" said Yohji.  
  
Yohji left.  
  
Schuldig felt his mind drift further and further away until it was masked by the buzz of activity in the hotel. He let Yohji go, then, and he rolled over in the bed.  
  
No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn’t drift back to sleep. After spending the night with Yohji's soft, warm thoughts, the people around him in the hotel chafed at him, scraping along his nerves with their worries and fears and false fronts. He wanted to sleep, damn it! And who would blame him if he had to give a few whiny bitches aneurysms to do it? Who would even know the difference? Schuldig had self-centeredness down to an art form.  
  
He reached out to a mind: defenseless, completely unaware, in the middle of a phone call, whispered and angry and spreading like poison through his synapses.  
  
He squeezed.  
  
Blood vessels branched and twisted around his focus. One spot, one tiny little pinprick thinned, stretching out like a balloon. There. The trap was set. All he had to do was lean a little, get the blood flowing hard with anger, and it'd all come crashing down. And who easier to provoke than someone already struggling to stay calm? There were hundreds of ways to do it. Trick the brain, make it think the angry conversation was so much worse than it was. Jack up the adrenaline. Cause a fever or phantom pain. Schuldig could make this person think they were dying, bleeding out in the hotel room.  
  
It would be so easy.  
  
And that was when Schuldig felt the _Other_. Something that felt like metal, smelled like cold steel, was in his head with him. As soon as he was aware of it, the contact snapped, and Schuldig was alone, squeezing the brain of a woman he had no real intentions of killing. He eased off the throttle quick. Shit. He couldn't undo what he'd (almost) done. She must have one fuck of a headache now. Schuldig planted a suggestion in her head, to get to a doctor quick. She had interrupted his nap, but an incipient aneurysm was no way to get revenge.  
  
The chilly, metallic feel lingered in his head, and he shuddered. There shouldn't have been anything that could influence him like that, without him knowing. It scared him to think that he might not have picked up on whatever it was at all.  
  
He sat up fast. Had Crawford known? Was this all part of his long-term game to win Schuldig over? Scare him, so that he'd end up coming to Crawford-the-all-seeing for help. Except Crawford would know that Schuldig would see through him. But Crawford probably knew that as well, and his warning and offer of help was instead his idea of being funny.  
  
"Fuck that shit," said Schuldig.  
  
He wouldn't ask Crawford for help, not even if he was dying.  
  
  
  
Schuldig checked out of the hotel earlier than he'd planned, what with Yohji having to work and the whole aneurysm thing. It would be better if he got some distance. Yeah.  
  
Schuldig found a different hotel, dropped his things, and went out to see what was what. He also had definite thoughts about tracking down whatever it was that had wallowed in his brain that morning. He'd been left with two impressions: the taste of metal, and, later, when the metal had faded to rust, the knowledge that it knew the city very well. Now, whether it was, in fact, a human or some new horror he'd never encountered before, he didn't know. But he was going to find out.  
  
He was too restless to sit and search only with his mind, holed up in the relative safety of his hotel room, so instead Schuldig bought himself a two-hundred dollar pair of trainers and a couple packs of cigarettes and wandered the streets.  
  
There wasn't much to see, really; asphalt, crumbling curbs, lots of cars and unhappy people, scraggly trees and buildings that blotted out the sky. Dog shit. Pigeons. Used gum spat out on the sidewalk. The scents of diesel and gasoline. The usual, for a city of its size. To Schuldig, it felt uncomfortably like home. He caught himself looking over his shoulder now and again, as if he expected to find one of his cousins—or worse, aunts or uncles—trailing behind him. A coffee would be just the thing to settle him. There was no reason to be nervous. No reason at all.  
  
So he sat down at an outdoor café and got the biggest, strongest coffee he could get. Black. He drained the cup in less time than it took him to finish his cigarette. He ordered another when the waiter came around again, and when he had the cup in hand, he continued walking.  
  
Schuldig cast his mind like a net over the block around him. He could look much further, of course, but the wider he searched, the more likely it was he'd miss what he was looking for. And, considering he didn't know what he was looking for in the first place, he settled for precision instead of distance. It was a trade-off, to be sure. Schuldig picked up song lyrics he hadn't sung and the taste of food that he hadn't eaten. As people came and went, he had to stifle the impulse to say hi because he _knew_ them now. It would take time and distance and maybe a lot of alcohol before he'd be able to scrub them out of his perception.  
  
Going block by block was slow work. His feet ached, his throat was dry, and his head pounded from the extended effort. Usually what he did with his mind took a fraction of a second, a quick sprint, not this mind-numbing, exhausting thing he did now. He blinked and shook the hair out of his eyes for the hundredth time and wished he had another coffee and that he hadn't smoked that whole pack of cigarettes quite so fast.  
  
 _What a tasty morsel._  
  
Schuldig froze. It was the _Other_. Schuldig took a look around him. It took him a second to realize it wasn't speaking to him. It was speaking to someone else, and it hadn't noticed him yet, he hoped. Schuldig glanced left and right to see if he could spot who the _Other_ was talking to. There. The woman coming out of that apartment building. He felt her thoughts fluttering, trying to resist the words pouring into the ear of her mind.  
  
 _Won't you come to me?_  
  
Schuldig could feel the compulsion to _follow_ down to his teeth, and he disengaged before he started walking blindly along, too. He limited himself to keeping the woman within sight while she weaved her way through the crowded, pedestrian-only section of the old city. There were plaques everywhere, and the nice tar-and-cement scheme gave way to brick and honest-to-God, ankle-twisting cobbles. He felt the city closing in around him like the bars of a cage, and he wanted out, wanted to run screaming from whatever it was that awaited him down some unknown twisting of the streets because here he could feel the tang of metal and the force of the Other personality bearing down. Schuldig knew it knew he was there. If he ran, it would only follow.  
  
He paused and checked what he had on him to fight this thing. There was, of course, his mind, but the _Other_ was adept there, too. He had his gun and an extra clip. And that was it. If he'd known he'd find the thing's lair, he wouldn't have come without a fucking tank to mow it down. He would have nuked it, with prejudice, from a distance. He would have done anything but what he resigned himself to do now: to go into the proverbial belly of the beast, practically naked.  
  
 _Must I come to you, sweet Schuldig? Or you can continue to play charades, I the black beast and you the white knight. Whichever you like best._  
  
He could smell metal in the air. His head ached worse, as if the _Other's_ thoughts scraped along the nerves. He had no doubt the _Other_ had heard some—if not all—of his thoughts. He didn't need to follow the woman any more, not with a direct line like this. Besides which, he'd lost his tenuous hold on her completely as soon as they'd entered the _Other's_ presence.  
  
Schuldig gritted his teeth.  He kept walking.  
  
  
He knew he had found what he was looking for when he found the first of the woman's shoes in the mouth of an alley. Schuldig drew his gun. A little further in, he found the other shoe, then beyond that, piece by piece, what remained of her clothes. The alley, which had been narrow, began to widen, until at last it came to an end, sandwiched between several low buildings. Surprisingly, Schuldig stood in a garden. Moss grew up the sides of the buildings and the cobblestone alley gave way to moss and grass and other green things. There were even a couple trees, old and twisted, reaching for the sun that slanted in from above. He'd never have expected such a thing in the heart of the old city.  
  
"Do you like it? So few people appreciate it for what it is."  
  
Schuldig whirled around at the sound of the voice. It was a young voice, young and male, and it didn't quite match the body. The man who stood between him and the alleyway was older than Schuldig, or so he guessed. He wasn't as tall, and only the breadth of his shoulders suggested physical power: he wore a jacket, a tee shirt that clung to his torso, and an ordinary pair of jeans. Schuldig couldn't tell what color his eyes were, or the color of his hair. He tried to put a name to the colors, but every time he thought he had it, the name, the words, slipped away. Everything in him shivered, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of the _Other_. Because that was who this was. No doubt. The taste of metal flooded his mouth, and Schuldig spat it out.  
  
"Get out of my head," he said.  
  
The man smiled.  
  
"We could be friends, you and I," he said.  
  
The man took a step forward, and Schuldig stepped back.  
  
"No," said Schuldig.  
  
The man cocked his head.  
  
"No?" he said. "I thought we worked well together this morning. Did I mistake your pleasure?"  
  
And the man's words evoked feelings in Schuldig; he re-lived how it felt to manipulate, the wonder of the branching veins, the knowledge that he just had to make one little push and everything would come crashing down… Schuldig shook his head. He laid a hand on the butt of his gun.  
  
"Of course, I could give you so much more than that," said the man. "Much greater joy. Much greater power."  
  
The man waved a hand, and a hissing sound came from above. Schuldig looked up, quick, before he returned to watching the _Other._ The tops of the buildings all around were crowded with creatures: ghouls, night watches, zombies, stonemen, breathers…All of them were deadly, and Schuldig could feel their minds seething. They wanted to eat him, all of them. They wanted to tear him apart. But the _Other_ held them tight. He didn't let them move, hardly let them breathe. The feeling of that control washed through Schuldig. He felt the threads of the mind that bound the creatures, extending out, web-like, across the entire city.  
  
"I control them," the man said. "It's not so difficult for ones such as you and I. If you joined with me, you would not have to fear the falling of the night. You would never need to use your gun."  
  
Schuldig drew. He aimed for square between the man's eyes.  
  
"This gun, you mean?" he said. "Sorry. We go back a ways."  
  
The man laughed, his throat exposed. It was a perfect shot.  
  
"You don't really want to shoot me," he said. "Someone might get hurt. Why don't you put it down?"  
  
Schuldig's headache eased marginally. He looked at the gun, looked at the man. Did he want to shoot him? He'd killed that woman, or fed her to his creatures, but Schuldig had seen the inside of her head. She was nothing, just like the woman in the hotel, or the ghoul he'd shot the night before. Schuldig didn't know why he'd bothered to follow her in the first place, except to find this man. And now that he'd found him…  
  
"That's right," said the man. "You can always change your mind."  
  
Schuldig was dully surprised to find he had put the gun down. The man walked closer and picked it up, putting it in one of his jacket's pockets.  
  
"I'll keep it nice and safe for you," said the man. "Won't you have a seat?"  
  
Schuldig followed the man's hands, which pointed to the center of the garden. There crouched two haunts, on what remained of their hands and knees. The man walked over, calm as could be, and sat on the back of one. Schuldig followed suit. Strange. It was warm, but Schuldig couldn't feel a heart beat, couldn't hear breathing. He'd never been so close to one before. It held so still it might well have been furniture. He felt no fear.  
  
"There's really nothing to be afraid of," said the man. "They're as gentle as can be. Look for yourself and see how I hold them."  
  
Schuldig closed his eyes and followed the spider-thin link between the man and the haunt. It was _easy_. Just the slightest pressure, there, and the haunt's instincts, its whole body, bent to the will. Schuldig slipped in underneath the _other_ touch and held the haunt himself. The man withdrew, and Schuldig continued to hold the creature. He held it a little tighter, and a little tighter. The haunt's pitiful excuse for a mind beat against him, a moth battering itself against the burning brightness of Schuldig's grip. But Schuldig held it and bore down. The haunt grew weaker, struggled less and less until, finally, it stopped moving.  
  
Schuldig opened his eyes and found the haunt was cold beneath him. The man smiled at him, and his eyes swallowed Schuldig up.  
  
"If you stand, I will bring another for you. Are you tired?" The man said.  
  
"No," said Schuldig.  
  
He felt a little odd, a little floaty, but he was full of energy.  
  
"Excellent," said the man.  
  
He offered a hand, and Schuldig took it. Three more haunts leaped down from the roof. Two took away the corpse, and one assumed the hands-and knees position. Schuldig settled on its back. He ignored the sounds of rending flesh from above. So what? The things had to eat, and why not eat the dead? It was harmless.  
  
Schuldig stifled a yawn. He was suddenly tired: killing could take it out of a person, but at least his headache was gone.  
  
"So what do you think?" said the man. "We could really be something, you and I."  
  
Schuldig nodded drowsily. It didn't sound so bad. This man, whoever he was, had _power_. Schuldig liked power, liked to be able to say yes or no as it suited him. He'd never have to worry about his family again; he could squeeze their objections to nothing. It would be a good life, infinitely better than babies and domesticity and whatever the hell else his family was undoubtedly planning, even now. He'd make this taste of freedom last.  
  
Far away, as if coming from inside a tunnel, a phone rang. Schuldig yawned and leaned his head against the man's shoulder, natural and easy.  
  
The phone rang again. It was louder now, shrill. Why was there a phone? He was in a garden. He didn't have a phone; he'd left it behind along with all the other family shit he didn't want to deal with.  
  
The phone rang again. It bored into his consciousness. Crawford had given him a phone, hadn't he? Schuldig sat upright.  
  
" _Crawford,_ " he said.  
  
Schuldig felt the tiredness lift from him like fog, and he saw clearly where he was.  
  
"What the _fuck_ ," he said.  
  
He scrambled up off the haunt and backed himself toward the alley. What the hell was he thinking? Schuldig glanced at the _Other_ , and he knew. He felt sick to his stomach, and his headache swept back in now that that _thing_ over there had stopped tromping on his brain to suppress it.  
  
"You," he said.  
  
The _Other_ sighed and stood. The phone rang one last time, then went silent.  
  
"Pity," he said. "It would have been so much better had you come willingly."  
  
Schuldig's hand went for his gun.  
  
"Tch," said the man's face, said the body Schuldig knew was worn like a suit by the thing inside it. "We had this conversation already. You don't have your gun any more."  
  
The _Other_ withdrew it from its own pocket.  
  
"Not that I need to shoot you," it said. "Not with the night coming on."  
  
Schuldig looked up in dread: sure enough, the sun was shedding its last, feeble light over the already rising moon. The man's head flicked upward also, and a half-dozen ghouls leapt down, three at the mouth of the alley and three between him and the _Other_. Schuldig heard ankles breaking from the impact.  
  
"Take him," the man said. "Turn him if you have to, but don't kill him. I want him _alive_."  
  
The ghouls snarled, much less quiet than they'd been before. They advanced slowly, their movements stifled by the _Other's_ grip on them. The rest of the creatures on the roofs around sent their eerie cries up into the flickering stars. Schuldig thought as fast as he could. No gun. No way out; if he ran, they'd hunt him down. The only thing he had to defend himself with was…  
  
Schuldig reached out, sliding beneath the _Other's_ control over the ghouls, and he squeezed, hard. One of the ghouls dropped to the ground. Blood trickled from its nose and then it was still. Schuldig's headache surged. He reached for another ghoul.  
  
He concentrated on clearing his escape route first, but it took time, took precious seconds that he didn't fucking have. One by one the ghouls behind went down, and step by step the ghouls in front closed in, the _Other_ urging them on.  
  
Schuldig saw things in bursts of clarity, punctuated by strobing light and wavering darkness.  
  
 _You're pushing too hard_ , said the Other. _Just say yes and it will all be over_.  
  
"No," said Schuldig.  
  
Schuldig pushed his mind against the _Other_ then. The _Other_ pushed back. They fought, the _Other_ to control Schuldig, and Schuldig to control the man's right hand. If he could just…Slowly, the man's hand rose. The barrel of Schuldig's gun gleamed in the moon's light. A crack in the façade of the _Other_ , a lightning split in the smooth, seductive force of his mind. The gun came level with his temple. The _Other_ clawed metal through Schuldig's mind and Schuldig retched.  
  
"Schuldig," said the man. "You don't want to—"  
  
The gun went off, and the rapport echoed in the garden. The creatures above went silent. Schuldig wiped his face on his sleeve, idly noting a nosebleed. The _Other_ didn't move.  
  
"Don't fucking tell me what I want," he said.  
  
The silence in the garden broke first with the rank of ghouls in front of him. They turned on the body of the _Other_ , eating with sounds and viciousness that made Schuldig feel sick. The other creatures jumped down, all intent on a share, whether of the man or a weaker monster—because they were monsters now, not friendly furniture, not stiff-legged puppets. They were _monsters_ with sharp teeth and voices that gibbered and wailed, monsters that made noises that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.  
  
Schuldig backed slowly into the alley he knew was behind him. He wished he had his gun, but there was no fucking way he could get to it now even if he did still have that clip in his pocket. Schuldig's head felt like it was going to explode which was, he decided, why he made a serious mistake in his escape.  
  
He forgot the bodies of the ghouls behind him, and he tripped.  
  
Schuldig recovered quickly, but the damage was done. All eyes in the garden turned to him, him and his stupid beating heart and stupid live flesh. A ghoul howled, and almost as one, the crowd of hungry, needing, _starving_ creatures flowed toward him  
  
"Shit," he said.  
  
He fucking turned and fucking _ran_ for his life.  
  
There were too many of them: ghouls, stonemen, night watches, breathers, haunts and who-the-fuck knew. Schuldig was fast, but not fast enough. He was maybe halfway back to the old city proper, and they were gaining on him. Even if he made it that far, what then? They were all zeroed in on him; he could feel their intent throbbing behind his eyes. They weren't going to give him up, and there was no one left to control them; he wasn't fucking up to it, not when his brain was this _fried_. His lungs were on fire and pain stabbed his sides. Sweat blinded him to anything but the cobblestones in front of his feet. He didn't waste time looking back, not when there was a pool of light ahead: a street light.  
  
Schuldig stumbled, twisting an ankle brutally on the way down. Hands tore at his clothes, and he felt teeth sink into his leg. He kicked out, and something's skull caved in. The others fell on it, but there wasn't enough meat to go around. Shit. Shit. He was going to die. He could feel it in his bones, felt the presence of _something_ working its way into him. He really didn't want to die. Not like this. Schuldig felt himself start to panic. He wished, irrationally, for Crawford, and who the fuck cared what an irrational, dying man might shout?  
  
"Crawford!" he yelled. "Crawford!"  
  
Like fucking magic, Crawford came, knocking away the things that go bump in the night. He hit and punched and did things that left crumpled, dead heaps of monsters on the ground. And he didn't even have a _gun_.  
  
"Schuldig," said Crawford. "Get up. I have a car."  
  
Schuldig fought to get to his feet as the creatures backed away with the corpses of the dead. Crawford half-dragged him to safety, and Schuldig slid over in the back seat. The door slammed shut, Crawford beside him, and Schuldig's head hit the back of the seat when the driver hit the gas pedal—and probably some bodies, too, the way the car jerked violently as they picked up speed.  
  
Crawford looked down at Schuldig's injured leg. Schuldig looked away, over Crawford's shoulder at the blurred lights that sped past the car window.  
  
"You're going to have to take my leg off," Schuldig said. "Quick. Now. Before I turn."  
  
He concentrated on damming the _something_ that was working its way up his leg. But his head hurt so fucking bad and he couldn't hold it back for long.  
  
"It's going to hurt," said Crawford.  
  
"You think I don't fucking know that?" said Schuldig. "Do it now before you have to put me down."  
  
Crawford pulled out a light-wire, and Schuldig went cold at the sight of it, adding things up in fractions of seconds as the poisonous stuff crept higher inside his leg, rotting him away. Crawford had been nearby and had called the cell. Crawford had planned for this, had a fucking light-wire in his pocket.  
  
Crawford had known all along that things would go to shit.  
  
Schuldig tried and failed to think about it objectively, like it was someone else everything had happened to. The only good thing about the light-wire was that it would heat up and cauterize as it sliced through. It was going to take serious effort to take off a leg, even for a man as strong as Crawford. A pity Schuldig wasn't in any mood to appreciate the sort of flexing Crawford was going to have to do. If there was anything he appreciated about Crawford, it was his arms and shoulders.  
  
Crawford wound the ends of the wire around his hands and snapped it tight, once. The middle of the wire went white hot, and Crawford looped it around Schuldig's leg, just below the knee. Schuldig's pants started to smolder.  
  
"Higher," said Schuldig. "Can't risk it."  
  
Crawford slid it up several inches, and Schuldig smelled the sizzle of his own skin cooking.  
  
"I'm sorry," said Crawford.  
  
And he yanked the light-wire tight.  



	5. Entered in The Human Race

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include dubious consent (kind of) and drug use.
> 
> I'm still convinced that the time-space continuum is messing with me. (Two years since I last updated this? Really? I'm so sorry!!!) I've been sitting on most of this chapter the entire time and have only just figured out how to finish this part.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> .

Schuldig came around to the scents of disinfectants and death, and he knew before he even opened his eyes that he was in a hospital. He reached out, instinctively, with his mind, but his awareness stopped short of leaving his body. Fear flooded him. He was stuck. Somewhere, something beeped insistently.  
  
"Schuldig."  
  
 _Crawford?_  
  
But of course the bastard couldn't hear him, which was probably for the best when his fear was leaking all over the place.  
  
"Schuldig, if you can hear me, you need to open your eyes. The doctors said the drugs they gave you would inhibit your talents."  
  
Schuldig latched onto the sound of Crawford's voice above the beeping, which drilled into his ears. Crawford sounded almost…panicked, just like—  
 _—Schuldig, you'll be all right. We're close. The doctors are waiting for us. You need to stay awake. I won't allow you to die, not now—_  
  
Schuldig opened his eyes and tried to scream. Most of him just felt numb, but he was choking, he knew it, choking on the tube stuck down his throat. He tried to get it out, tried to tell Crawford to  
  
 _Get it out!_  
  
But he was stuck in this useless, doped up body that he couldn't even feel to command. Schuldig twitched when unknown hands touched him. He would have shoved away, but all he could manage was to sink his head a little deeper into the pillows. There were a couple blurs of white in front of him, and one darker blob that he knew—hoped—was Crawford.  
  
"Take it out," said Crawford. "Now, before he chokes or gives himself a heart attack."  
  
Other voices he didn't know murmured, and Schuldig gagged as the tube in his throat slid out. When the plastic was finally out of him, he coughed and spat out slime, or tried to. Shit. He couldn't even spit without someone having to mop up after him. The beeping started to slow, and Schuldig realized, belatedly, that it was something that was attached to him that had been making all the noise.  
  
Now that he could breathe, Schuldig took stock. Floaty from drugs? Check. Throat bruised? Check. Too weak to flip someone the bird? Check. Totally unable to defend himself with either body or mind? Big fat fucking check. Truthfully, he felt like he'd been hit by a truck.  
  
When Schuldig tried to focus his eyes, they jittered and mostly didn't obey. Everything was fuzzy and blobby. He closed his eyes again. Screw this. He'd wait until he felt less like shit before he did anything so hard as count heads in the room. Schuldig ignored the part of him that said Crawford could be trusted to guard him in his sleep. He could wait to kick Crawford out. It wouldn't be satisfying if he wasn't all there to enjoy it. Yeah. Schuldig yawned. That was what he'd do, just as soon as he rested his eyes a minute…  
  


  
  
The next time Schuldig woke, it was to a darkened, quiet room and the yellowish, indirect light thrown by a city's worth of light pollution. It was enough to see the outline of a man in the chair that faced the foot of the bed. That unexpected unknown, someone being  _right there_  without Schuldig knowing before he opened his eyes was more than enough to scare him. But in the next second, Schuldig knew, and the momentary spike of adrenaline dropped.  
  
"Crawford," he said.  
  
"The doctors say your telepathy will be fully operational tomorrow," Crawford said. "Trying anything before then is not recommended."  
  
Schuldig tried, of course. It got him nowhere: his control was beyond shot, and all he could glean were fuzzy impressions of someone's thoughts—it could have been Crawford, but it just as easily could have been someone ten miles away.  
  
"Schuldig," said Crawford.  
  
The  _I told you so_  was unspoken, but Schuldig knew (without reading it out of Crawford's head) that Crawford was thinking it.  
  
"Fuck you," said Schuldig.  
  
The best cold shoulder he could manage was to close his eyes and turn his head—Schuldig still had all kinds of wires and tubes attached, so he couldn't actually roll over. He lay with his eyes scrunched shut for a small eternity. Crawford's breathing was too loud. It hurt Schuldig's ears in the quiet of the night.  
  
Not to mention he still felt like a truck had hit him. Schuldig yawned. A truck full of sheep and pillows. The sheep had shit in his mouth and the pillows were currently smothering his thoughts…  
  
Schuldig almost didn't notice when Crawford got up and left. He also almost didn't feel hurt that Crawford was leaving before Schuldig could kick him out.  
  
Almost.  
  


 

  
Over the next few days, Schuldig spent an increasing amount of time counting the holes in the ceiling tiles above his bed and less and less time in a heavy, drugged sleep, which also meant he had a lot more time to look (or not look) at the leg he no longer had. Of course, as long as his IV kept dripping, he didn't really give a rat's ass. He couldn't feel it, not really. It was like he was eavesdropping on someone else's pain, someone else's sudden amputation. And every time Schuldig felt himself edging too close to reality, towards a bitter hysteria over the fact that he was still alive and miserable as fuck because he had one less limb than he fucking ought to, he hit the button and waited for the drugs to wash it all away.  
  
So, of course, as soon as Schuldig was feeling  _good_ , Crawford came and ruined it all, just like he'd ruined everything else lately.  
  
"Good morning," said Crawford. "Are you feeling well?"  
  
He placed a vase full of yellow tulips on the bedside table, arranging them just so.  
  
Schuldig laughed. Crawford was like a fucking penitent, bringing flowers to his bedside like that. Pathetic. Nothing like the man he'd been that night, when—Schuldig cut himself off. How long had it been, anyway? IT was hard to tell when time ticked away between four hospital walls and Schuldig's thoughts were numbed by the appreciably strong IV drip. Maybe that was why the sight of Crawford with flowers in his hand made him laugh.  
  
"Thank God you can't impregnate me," he said.  
  
Crawford gave him a mute look.  
  
"They all expect me to drop everything and make babies," he said. "For fuck's sake, I'm not a woman. I'm supposed to fuck and run, leaving the baby maker far behind."  
  
"There's no fucking involved," said Crawford. "Unless you think a sample container is going to suddenly develop sentience and assent or reject your advances once you get your dick near it."  
  
"Fuck you," said Schuldig. "It's a metaphor."  
  
"It's a bad metaphor," said Crawford.  
  
"And I suppose your family wants to whisk you off the second conception's confirmed," said Schuldig.  
  
"Sooner," said Crawford. "As soon as you agree, I leave my sample with your family's laboratory."  
  
Unspoken was that, despite everything Schuldig had tried to distance them, Crawford wanted to stay. Schuldig heard it anyway, in the space inside Crawford's head. He didn't understand it. He didn't  _want_  to understand.  
  
"You just like that I tell you no," said Schuldig.   
  
"There's that," said Crawford.  
  
There was more, too, but Schuldig didn't want to hear it. He pushed the IV drip button in his hand and let himself float a little further from reality.  
  
"And anyway, what if losing my leg traumatized me?" said Schuldig. "Maybe I'll be impotent the rest of my life."  
  
Schuldig couldn't actually feel the hurt: the abrupt end of his left leg was an abstract covered by the hospital's sheets. He'd forget, even now, staring down at the stump, that there wasn't anything attached. He kept expecting that, when he shifted around in the bed, there'd be a knee and an ankle and a foot moving as well.  
  
"I doubt that," said Crawford. "If you are impotent, I'm sure it's with deliberate effort on your part."  
  
Schuldig laughed like a dying car's engine: shudder, shudder, full stop. Crawford didn't change. He could count on that. The flowers were part of some elaborate plot, because obviously Crawford didn't have feelings, and he only wanted Schuldig well so that he could continue his cockeyed seduction.  
  
Schuldig waited for Crawford to say something else. He could feel that Crawford was holding himself back, but he didn’t dig to find out what that something was. He told himself that it would be much more satisfying to watch Crawford squirm and, eventually, break, but it wasn’t satisfying at all.  
  
Just like scratching at where his leg used to be didn’t do anything to satisfy the fucking itch that was there.  
  
Crawford ended up leaving without saying a word, and Schuldig’s skin continued to creep. He waited a tortuous ten minutes before he allowed himself to claw the skin just above his bandages.   
  
The itch didn’t go away.  
  
  
  
  
“Let’s fuck,” Schuldig said.  
  
Sometimes, he even surprised himself. But then, ever since they’d taken him off the good stuff and had moved him from the regular hospital to a recovery center, he’d been more and more aware of how much his non-existent leg hurt. It burned and itched and kept him awake.  
  
And now Crawford was here, sitting at the foot of his bed without a hint of lust, without the slightest suggestion that he ever wanted to do anything with Schuldig. It made Schuldig crazy.  
  
“Unless, of course, you’re put off by the shitty job you did amputating my leg,” said Schuldig.  
  
He watched Crawford's face twitch. A whiff of guilt emanated from his mind. Shit. Not the kind of reaction he wanted to provoke.  
  
"It's my own fucking fault," Schuldig said.   
  
"Is it now?" said Crawford.  
  
Though Schuldig still wasn't convinced that Crawford hadn't set him up, somehow, he was equally unsure that Crawford  _would_  traffic with a monster like the Other. Something deep inside Schuldig shivered. He tried to squash the feeling by stretching in the bed, and he felt, rather than saw, Crawford's attention reroute itself to the skin Schuldig presented.  
  
"I'm irresistible," said Schuldig. "It's my curse. As soon as that thing got the scent of me, how could you expect it to let me go?"  
  
The tedium of being down a leg was unbearable. Even fucking Crawford had to be better than thinking about his leg some more.   
  
"I don't consider that to be a recommendation," said Crawford. "What? Ten out of ten ghouls would bite?"  
  
Crawford's transparency, his inability to actually make a joke that was funny… Schuldig thought it was hilarious. It made him feel fond of Crawford, the way a person would feel fond about a particularly stupid dog.  
  
"So how about it?" said Schuldig. "You get what you want, I get a little distraction. Itches scratched, no muss, no fuss."  
  
Crawford studied his face, and Schuldig felt his mind working, trying to figure out this latest turn. Schuldig's non-existent leg began to twinge, then itch, and he fought the urge to scratch until he bled while Crawford had his boring, internal debate.  
  
"I don't understand your motivation," said Crawford.  
  
Schuldig rolled his eyes. Honestly.  
  
"What's there to understand?" said Schuldig. "Me. On my back. Or side, front, whatever. We have sex. You get what you want, and I get the pleasure of never seeing you ever again."  
  
Crawford sighed.  
  
"I ought to tell you no," he said.  
  
"But will you?" said Schuldig.  
  
He flipped back the sheet and blankets so Crawford could see, up close and personal, what Schuldig had to offer. Conveniently, this move obscured the leg that wasn't there. The stump's end was underneath the discarded blankets.  
  
"I take it you have decided the matter of your impotence," said Crawford.  
  
"You want a guarantee?" said Schuldig. "Fine. I swear my sperm will be wriggly and fresh and perfect. Do you want kids with red hair, or would you prefer brunettes?"  
  
It might have been an exaggeration of his control to suggest that, but Schuldig was tired of dancing around. He wanted Crawford to say yes so they could just…get it over with. So that he could fucking  _deal_  with his leg without Crawford hovering around, observing, criticizing. Schuldig was beginning to envision his own future as a stylishly tragic morphine addict, attended to in sumptuous style by the sexiest nurses his family could afford, and he couldn't do that with Crawford dogging his every move.  
  
He was looking forward to everything being numb again.   
  
Schuldig sighed and allowed himself the luxury of feeling the tiredness in his body--he wasn't anywhere near one hundred percent, not yet, but he didn't expect that to change any time soon. He looked at Crawford, then to the door, and back to Crawford, expectant. Schuldig's heart beat harder than he would have liked.   
  
Crawford took forever getting to the door, and Schuldig's insides swirled until he thought he was going to puke. His leg screamed at him, and the weight of the blankets did nothing to muffle it. Thank Christ Crawford couldn't read minds.  
  
The click of the lock engaging was almost inaudible over Sculdig's heartbeat in his ears and the sawing of his breath. He felt weird about it, just  _giving_ Crawford what he wanted—what his family wanted. But at this very moment, Crawford's wants and Schuldig's need to blot everything out were aligned, colliding. If Schuldig were lucky, the collision would stop him from feeling his leg for a few precious minutes.  
  
Schuldig wondered if Crawford had foreseen them having sex.   
  
Crawford came away from the door, stood next to the bed and untied his tie. Before Schuldig lost his leg, he'd probably have found it sexy and infuriating how Crawford smouldered as the tie slithered across the back of his neck and to the floor. He undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt next, then at the throat, the chest, and down to reveal the gleam of his belt buckle.  
  
Schuldig's throat was painfully dry, and he chewed his tongue to wet his mouth. He wondered if Crawford thought Schuldig wanted him, if he saw the way Schuldig swallowed and thought it was a calculated, coy move. Schuldig didn't know if he was going to be able to get hard without goosing his own brain.  
  
"Hurry it up," Schuldig said.  
  
Crawford arched an eyebrow at him. He took off his shirt and draped it on the chair that sat, alone, in the corner of the room. Crawford's arms were corded muscle—Schuldig turned away the thought of the light-wire pulled tight and smoking—his chest hard and defined and with a light scattering of hair. Schuldig couldn't decide whether he liked it or not; mostly it pissed him off because he knew that Crawford was a priss and had probably calculated the exact amount of hair it would take to look good without making it obvious that he was trying to be attractive to Schuldig's tastes. It galled him and, weirdly, felt flattering at the same time. Clearly Crawford put more effort into pleasing Schuldig than his ass-hattery might suggest.  
  
"I don't do everything just to please you," said Crawford. "I do have other interests."  
  
But Schuldig felt how amused Crawford was, how much he liked having Schuldig look at him like that. Schuldig wondered what he looked like to Crawford, what it was about him that gave Crawford that pleasant twist in the gut.  
  
Crawford's belt buckle snicked open, and Schuldig watched as he unbuttoned his pants. For a second jealousy stabbed at him; he hadn't worn actual clothing—least of all pants—since the night he'd been bitten. Even in recovery, he sulked in a robe because a robe meant he could pretend that he still had two legs, could pretend that he was at a particularly dull hotel somewhere, waiting for room service to arrive.   
  
The way his skin crawled told Schuldig everything he didn't want to know, destroyed the fantasy even before it was fully formed. It was a bitter taste in his mouth.  
  
"Shit," said Schuldig.   
  
"Hmm?" said Crawford.   
  
Crawford should have looked attractive like this, hair mussed and easing the waistband of his briefs down to the floor with his very nice ass displayed to advantage, but Schuldig just…couldn't. He couldn't appreciate Crawford's body like he should, and there was no way he'd be able to do anything that would culminate in coming for science.  
  
"This isn't going to work," said Schuldig.  
  
Crawford frowned. He sat beside Schuldig, in the space that would have been the rest of his leg if…well. No point in dwelling on that now, not when he had the rest of his life to think about it. Crawford’s hand brushed against Schuldig, and he flinched. The hand did not return.  
  
“Would you prefer I left you alone?” Crawford said. “Although it would be best if I could verify the…contribution firsthand, I believe it would be believed even if I lied.”  
  
Schuldig blinked at Crawford.  
  
“It’s funny,” Schuldig said. “You joking about me not being able to get it up, and now that may actually—”  
  
Schuldig stopped. Crawford had one of his hands on Schuldig's fist--Schuldig hadn't even realized his hands were white-knuckling the sheets until that moment--and he was gently prizing the fingers outward from the palm. Crawford glided over the marks Schuldig’s nails had dug into the skin, and then he deposited a pair of pills there: uniform, white, ovals perhaps the size of Schuldig’s pinky nail. No markings, no nothing. They glistened when Schuldig rolled them.  
  
“What are they?” said Schuldig. “Viagra?”  
  
He felt bitter all over again. Maybe he'd never stopped. Of course Crawford had a plan B. He fucking knew everything, didn’t he?  
  
"It’s Spanish fly," said Crawford.  
  
"You can't be serious," said Schuldig.  
  
It was so old-fashioned, so quaint—Schuldig had always known Crawford was a hipster in disguise. In other circumstances he'd take great pleasure in mocking, but the words were trapped in his throat by the humiliation of it all. He turned the pills over in his hand again.  
  
"You know this kind of crap only works because of the placebo effect," he said. “These could be sugar and as long as I thought they’d work, they’d work.”  
  
Crawford's smug certainty pressed on Schuldig's mind, and Schuldig wondered what was actually in the pills. Nothing that would hurt him, but there were plenty of drugs out there that wouldn’t  _hurt_  him. Well, fuck it. Schuldig just hoped whatever it was would wipe his memories.  
  
While Crawford watched, Schuldig swallowed them dry. And when Crawford brought him a paper cup of water, he drank it. He almost choked too, because it wasn’t water after all, but some seriously strong booze. Vodka? Grain alcohol? Whatever it was sizzled at the back of his throat and burned its way into his sinuses. Schuldig hacked a few times and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
“Next time warn me, you prick,” he said.  
  
Schuldig crumpled the cup and threw it at Crawford. Warmth spread from his throat all the way down, and Schuldig felt his skin flush.  
  
“Another?” said Crawford.  
  
Schuldig shook his head, and the room tilted sideways. He felt his mind go fuzzy, and he made a grab for Crawford’s thoughts to steady himself. He couldn’t read half of them, but through Crawford’s perception of him, he was able to keep himself from drifting further outside his body.  
  
 _That was fast._  
  
“It’s a normal response time,” said Crawford. “You should feel better soon, Schuldig.”  
  
Schuldig didn’t know if he’d actually said it out loud or if he’d spoken directly into Crawford’s head—leaning so close on another person’s mind could have side effects. Schuldig pushed his head back against the pillows.  
  
His eyes felt gummy, the lids heavy. Every blink blotted out the sun, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to open them again. The warm feeling spread from his throat and chest into his stomach. From there it radiated out. Schuldig felt the soles of his feet start to sweat. Or was it only one foot? Could phantom limbs sweat? The flush rose up through him, hot enough that his nipples tightened and rose in a useless attempt to regulate the sudden heat. He felt sweat trickle along his collar bones, down his neck and across his shoulders into the sheets.  
  
Schuldig concentrated on one breath at a time. Blood swept through him like a crashing wave, and he leaned harder on Crawford’s mind. It was nice in there. Quiet. Clear. Crawford thought such complimentary things about him. How pretty, how smart, how strong.  
  
 _How fuckable._  
  
"Thank you," said Crawford.   
  
It took Schuldig uncountable seconds to realize he was reflecting those complimentary things right back. Or the thoughts had been his all along and he was only sharing them now. The noise of Crawford setting his glasses aside startled him and changed his focus from inside to the outside world.  
  
Schuldig let his eyes drift over to Crawford. The angle of his jaw was sharp, and Schuldig could see the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow there. He touched with the back of his hand, taking in the structure of Crawford's face with his fingertips. The smugness of the forehead, the spread of his cheekbones, the flutter of the eyelashes that, Schuldig was amused to find, were long and girly. Rough, chapped lips and the hot wash of his breath close behind.  
  
Those lips followed his hand back, and so did the rest of Crawford. Crawford straddled him, knees on level with Schuldig's thighs, hands planted into the covers beside Schuldig's shoulders, body hovering in a flat plane above Schuldig's torso.   
  
Schuldig was pinned, caged by Crawford's long arms and longer legs. The heat he had felt was fading to a tolerable level. He continued to pour sweat onto the covers as he struggled to breathe evenly. The room continued to make little swoops every time Schuldig moved his head, hazy and unfocused in the nicest way.   
  
Crawford burned against him, branded him with his lips against Schuldig's neck. He followed the trails of sweat down, across Schuldig's chest. He marked the way with sharp bites that made Schuldig push up against him for more.   
  
Schuldig hooked his leg awkwardly around one of Crawford's and pulled Crawford onto him, properly, mashing Crawford's nose against his chest and bringing his dick into friction with Schuldig. The angle wasn't quite right, but Schuldig flexed his hips and ground anyway.   
  
"Your pills are magic pills," said Schuldig.   
  
He was hard and he hadn't even noticed when that happened, and it wasn't just a little hard, either. He was throbbing, and every time he made contact with Crawford he could feel his heartbeat squeezing through the length of his cock.  
  
Crawford bit the point where Schuldig's neck met his shoulder.  
  
"Yeah," he said. "Just like that."  
  
Schuldig needed  
  
 _more_  
  
and out of nowhere Crawford's hand was on him, slick with sweat and lube. He worked his fist over Schuldig's cock, and Schuldig reveled in the feeling. Hot, tight, slippery, the skin stretching just enough to sting a little every time he pushed the head past Crawford's knuckles.   
  
"More?" said Crawford.  
  
"More," said Schuldig.  
  
Inside his head the sensations howled, built higher when Crawford's knees moved to spread Schuldig's legs wide. Crawford's hand slowed, tortuous on Schuldig's dick, and his other hand made the lightest of touches over Schuldig's balls. Schuldig sucked in a deep breath, and Crawford made a second, firm stroke, separated them with a finger, then curved his palm underneath to lift them gently up. Schuldig felt each finger and a second flush rose up in him.  
  
"Are you ready?" said Crawford.  
  
Schuldig quivered, and all the hairs on his body, from his scalp to his toes, tried to stand on end. Crawford trailed a finger down Schuldig's cock, then up again. A drop of precome squeezed its way out, and Crawford touched it with his tongue. Schuldig tasted it too, through Crawford, tasted his excitement and the sense of  _almost_.  
  
"Yes," said Crawford. "Just a little--"  
  
He massaged gently with the hand on Schuldig's balls, coaxing with the tips of his fingers. Crawford slid his thumb over the top of Schuldig's dick, swirling down and around and back up over the head.  
  
Schuldig could taste it at the back of his throat like blood, like metal, like coming.  
  
Crawford locked eyes with Schuldig and bit down on Schuldig's hip above the leg that wasn't there. Bit and licked and sucked a bruise into existence, a bruise that Schuldig felt all through his body.   
  
Helpless and enthralled, Schuldig came. Crawford's hands never stopped, his tongue and teeth never stopped building the bruise, and each time Schuldig spurted, he felt more ready to be drawn out of him. Crawford milked him, easing every drop of come out.   
  
It was too much and not enough and just right the way the lights burst behind his eyes and his toes cramped up and he clenched his jaw and bit the inside of his cheek bloody.  
  
Even when Schuldig thought he would die if Crawford didn't stop, Crawford didn't stop and Schuldig kept thinking he would die.   
  
But he didn't.  
  
At last, Schuldig felt something in himself go slack, and he sank into the bed. His muscles jerked randomly as he came down, and he felt the sweat on him start to cool in the places where it had gathered.  
  
The bed jostled underneath him, and he felt Crawford's thoughts move away a little. Schuldig just tried to breathe. In and out. In and out.  
  
Eventually Crawford came back with a damp cloth and mopped Schuldig up, handling him with delicate care. Even so, Schuldig was convinced that Crawford had broken him a little.  
  
He hissed when the cloth swept over his dick.  
  
"Watch it," Schuldig said.  
  
"Hmm," said Crawford. "Excuse me."  
  
He lifted Schuldig's leg up to wipe the back of his knee and the sheet underneath. Put back down, Schuldig registered a distinct wet spot there. He looked sidelong at Crawford. Had he--? Schuldig sighed. His thoughts were too fuzzy for this. Instead, he leaned on Crawford's memories.  
  
 _Yes, yes, like that, come for me, yesyesyes…._  
  
  
"Turned you on that much, huh?" Said Schuldig.  
  
An awkward silence pervaded the room while Schuldig lay there like a dead thing and Crawford just…stared at him. Schuldig fought the urge to cover up.  
  
"You got what you wanted," said Schuldig. "So…"  
  
Crawford snorted.  
  
"Hardly," he said. "You'll know when I am done with you."  
  
Schuldig's stomach twisted. Crawford rested a hand on the bruise and rubbed it gently. Schuldig inhaled, fast. It might have been a gasp, but he wasn't the kind of person who gasped during sex. Schuldig's mouth was dry, dry, dry. His whole body was thirsty, and he could barely string two thoughts together.  
  
"Your sample," said Schuldig.  
  
Crawford's hand moved lower, and Schuldig bit his lip. He was overloaded; Crawford's touch stung, but Schuldig  _wanted_  anyway. Schuldig was dizzy with the possibilities, and the room wavered at the edges. Was it the drugs? was it him? Did it matter?   
  
"I'm not after just a sample," said Crawford. "I want so much more from you."  
  
And Crawford bowed his head over Schuldig's lap.   
  
  
 _Oh._  
  
"Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> The towns of Twitchell and Effington are real towns in my state, but I'm just borrowing the names. My story bears no resemblance to the real places, I'm sure.
> 
> Also, story and chapter titles have been appropriated from Samuel Hoffenstein's "Poems in Praise of Practically Nothing." I encourage you to read some of his work: it's decidedly funny, even if the poems are very much products of their times. (They were written in...the 1920's, I think.) I mean no harm. The "gang aft agley" line is borrowed from Robert Burns's "To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough." Another faboulously funny poet. (You can get his works via Project Gutenberg, if you like.)


End file.
